


Southernisms

by atomictourist



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: 23rd century cities, Atlanta, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomictourist/pseuds/atomictourist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This will hopefully be a collection of drabbles/vignettes/whatever you want to call them about Bones, Kirk, and Spock getting up to no good in 23rd century Atlanta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southernisms

**Author's Note:**

> These are the things I think about when I'm at the bookshop waiting for Atlanta rush hour traffic to calm down. Like a lot of fans, I imagine Bones is from Atlanta. I apologize if this turns into a love letter to my city. Dedicated to Desi and all the other Trekkies who call Atlanta home in one way or another. Caveat: I'm writing these on the fly with minimal editing so, y'know, be kind. :)

Leonard McCoy chuckles as his two companions brace themselves against the Georgia summer air. "I thought you were from a desert planet, Spock," he says.

After five years together in deep space they can joke about these things. Still, Jim Kirk pauses, eyes steady on their Vulcan friend much the same as McCoy's, to gauge his response.

Spock squints out beyond their shuttlecraft at the sprawling city, his expression at once serene and wry. "I am accustomed to heat, yes. However, this humidity is quite another matter."

McCoy's chuckle turns into an outright laugh. He bounds off the shuttle, planting both feet squarely in the lush grass below. Jim and Spock exchange bemused looks.

"Gentlemen, welcome to the fine city of Atlanta," McCoy says, facing them to make a sweeping gesture with both arms.

Jim is the next off the shuttle and he makes a show of divesting himself of his stifling leather jacket. He doesn't miss the group of women who stop to stare, tossing them a flyboy grin. 

McCoy suspects Jim wore that ridiculously tight shirt for just such an occasion, and rolls his eyes to say as much. "This isn't San Francisco, Jim. The women here'll eat you for dinner." He'd know.

"One can only hope," Jim responds, adding an eyebrow waggle for emphasis. McCoy can't help but laugh at his friend.

Spock stands still at the shuttle's entrance, either not hearing their conversation or purposefully ignoring them (McCoy wagers on the latter) as he takes in the city before them.

Atlanta is a sprawling mess of old and new structures, the tallest ones forming a jagged, gap-toothed maw against a cloudless blue sky. An endless line of shuttles and personal hovercrafts weaves in and out between the buildings, clogging the airspace. With it comes the sounds of horns and angry shouts.

McCoy checks his watch; they've arrived smack in the middle of the afternoon rush. But thanks to a pilot who doesn't know the area, they are away from the worst of it. This is one thing he didn't miss while he was away. It's easily forgiven, though, as a cool breeze cuts its way through the sticky air and blows gently across his face.

"Spock get down here," Jim calls, "our pilot needs to take off."

"Perhaps we should not have landed illegally then," Spock quips but joins them all the same. The shuttle takes off to fight its way in among the others massed across the city airspace.


End file.
